Peliwen had put Morwinyon in her old rooms after sending someone to notify Thranduil that his daughter had returned with news. Morwinyon had half expected the rooms to be the same as she'd left them, clothes tossed in her haste to pack and windows open.
They were not. Her things were there - the things she had not bothered to pack, including the book she had been reading when Fili and Kili and the rest were led across the bridge- but everything had been neatly put away, and others added. A lapdesk rested on the window seat, and the pillows were arranged in ways she never put them.
"Sometimes he works here," Peliwen said when she noticed Morwinyon's frown at the window seat, and left Morwinyon to her own devices, escorting a beleaguered-looking Haldir. Morwinyon did not need her to specify who 'he' was.
Morwinyon took a bath and stood looking into the wardrobe, her Dunedain clothing in hand. The clothes would still fit, probably - she had not grown, though she might have added some visible muscle, and all of her clothes had been cut loose and flowing, even the trousers, and it did seem pointless to sleep in dirty clothes when she had clean ones to hand. Her hair hung, wet and dripping, past her hips as she considered that too.
Her widow's braid she would obviously wear, but what of the rest of her hair? Should she braid it as she usually did? Leave it down? Put it in elven battle-braids? Did she remember how to make elven battle-braids?
The clothes she had travelled in should be washed, she decided. She would be practical and wear the clean clothes in the wardrobe. Her hair -
She had never kept a mirror in her rooms. Asking for one felt too much like admitting something, though she was not sure what she would be admitting to. Caring, maybe? She did care.
Instead of asking for a mirror she used the watery reflection in the window and decided she did not like how loose hair looked with her eye patch. When she tried the battle-braids her fingers were as clumsy as she had feared. With a sigh, she went back to the style Dis has so painstakingly shown her and helped her practice over the years.
Was she going to have to learn a new hairstyle when - if - Tari and Nion ruled in Erebor? It was a small worry in the grand scheme of things, but Morwinyon had come to like her braids and the comforting pull of her husband's hair ornaments. She was not at all sure she would want to change them in the long term.
It was a problem for another day. She raised her chin at her reflection in the window - the pale blue of the elven robe looked strange, she was used to wearing dark colors - and curled up on the windowseat, book settled against her knees.
The picture of Laeriel remained the same, and Morwinyon's attention was drawn inexorably to Delu in her mother's right hand.
Her mother had been able to use both of her hands at whatever she chose to practice, as Legolas and Morwinyon could, so presumably the loss of her hand would hinder her less than it would some others if the vision was real. Could be, Galadriel had said.
Could be. Spectacularly unhelpful.
Well, if it could be, that meant Laeriel Glingaerien lived, or had at the time. Whether she lived in any sort of recognizable fashion would be up for debate if and when Morwinyon faced her - Thranduil would not, Morwinyon knew. Thranduil, who had never stopped looking for his wife in his children even if he had stopped sending patrols with explicit orders to find her elsewhere, would never raise a hand to Laeriel. Could Morwinyon even tell him what she feared?
"Where are you, Naneth?" Morwinyon asked, and outside the trees rustled, loud enough to be heard across the bridge, through the window: Where?
Morwinyon sighed, and closed the book, and lay back to doze against the pillows in the windowseat as she had so many times before.
She woke disoriented, reaching automatically for weapons that were not there because she had left them by the wardrobe before remembering where she was.
How long had she slept? Light was funny in Mirkwood. At least she knew what had woken her - the trees whispered excitedly, and as she sat up she saw a party of elves burst out of the trees and halt at the edge of the bridge. One of them skidded to an inelegant stop, looking up and unerringly towards her window.
Thranduil saw her looking out, she knew.
She had never been afraid of her father, only angry, but looking at him now she had difficulty mustering even that. He looked better than he had, she thought, when she had not known he looked poorly. She wondered what he thought of her, or what he would think of her when he was closer. She was not sure how many details he could see - she had never learned how badly his vision had been affected by Dagnir's fire. It had blinded one eye entirely, but she suspected, looking back, that the other was not as perfect as he let his subjects believe.
Mowrinyon raised a hand and waved. Thranduil, hesitantly, as if he was not entirely sure what he was doing, waved back.
"Must you shout?" Thranduil asked mildly. "Mirwen only just fell asleep."
Inwiel coughed behind him, and in front of him the elves blinked. Mirwen yawned and snuggled closer.
"I do not suppose this conversation could be had without the child?" one of the elves in front of him asked hesitantly.
Thranduil raised his eyebrows. "No."
Inwiel coughed again.
"You are well, Inwiel?" he asked.
"I will undoubtedly recover, Majesty," she replied.
When the elves were escorted out by Tauriel after having their dispute settled in more moderate tones, Legolas strode up the steps to stand beside his father's throne.
"I could take her," he offered.
"Nonsense," Thranduil replied. "Her very presence promotes peace and well-being. Or at least quiet ill-will. So, Inwiel? Do you think she will bring forth good will in all the lands?"
"With her parents, sire," Inwiel said, very dryly, "That will of course be her highest priority."
"You do not respect me," Thranduil accused as the next petitioners were led in.
"I respect you plenty, Majesty. Your wife would have my guts for garters, else."
He snorted once and gestured for the elves to approach.